you can't
catch a ttypo,
with a btterfly
knet.

that's y
we hve
spell
Czech.

Hands are underrated; I think
The comforting touch: the human link
Palms on thighs
Fingers entwined

Hands are underrated; as I understand
The feel of another: the hope of a hand
Palm to palm
Fingers dancing to song

Hands are underrated; I know
Gentle or aggressive. Both loving so
We'll love skin to skin
We'll live like eachothers twin

Never forgetting the comfort of hands
Because losing can devastate but no one understands

The reason that mutes the murmur of my lips
for the silence no one near me forgets
is the ******* of my heart.
Without knowing,
of what would it speak?
Filled with words,
the hollow cap peeks
into the muscles and bone.
Flesh for a kingdom,
thought for a throne.
The heaving poet sleeps
not sound,
not silent,
but there at 3:15.
Spilling his spiraling
tic toc dreams
between the pallid sheets.

The best poems
are never shared.
They are written
on the insides of our eyelids
and each one reads
'You are beautiful.'
I cannot speak your poem.
I am still learning to pronounce my own.
The language of the God
who penned the phrase
is foreign to my wandering tongue.
But I read it.
Over and over again while I sleep,
stumbling over the words,
making mince of all His poetry.

I shall put the ' meaning of life"
at the center of my prose,
protected by paragraphs,
it shall be safe, unread,
and never known.

Then she cocked her head
Eying close my outstretched hand
And winked to say "Yes!"